Hope
by elospock
Summary: How it could have happened. Mostly based on the events of XMFC and XMDOFP, though with a slashy twist. But probably heading further than where the last movie left us. Rated M for alcohol and drug abuse, violence, non-con/rape, bullying, language, and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1: Hurt

Author's Note:

So. I have this playlist, you know. Of songs that make me cry, nostalgic, happy, sappy, sad, angry. Pretty sure we all have one.

And lately, they kinda made me think a lot of Cherik. A lot.

So I decided to do a fic based on this (self) prompt: I would write a cherik fic, though each chapter would have to be inspired by a song (some more loosely than others). This will not be a collection of one-shots, though. It will be a many-chaptered fic.

It's going to look a lot like DOFP, but with slash. I really enjoyed the movie, and I enjoyed even more digging in the slashy undertones that are present in the movie. There are also going to be many flashbacks of XMFC, because the slash was even more obvious there, and left a bit too much to the imagination of the viewers for my taste. SO. Here is how it could have happened, one of the many, many, many ways of how things could have turned out. I might skip over quickly some parts of the story, because I don't want this to be, like, an exact copy of the movies. And it's stopping further than the end of DOFP.

So here is the result! Hope you'll enjoy it. :)

This is my first attempt at Cherik! So, please, let me know what you think! Any constructive comment will be most welcome. It will motivate me to write more (and quicker!). :) Live long and prosper!

* * *

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything in this universe, neither the characters, nor the settings or even some dialogues. I intend to make no profit out of this, as it is done out of pure love for this wonderful universe. I do not own any of the songs that inspired this work either. Any resemblance to any other story, song, poem, movie, real people or anything else is fortuitous and was by no mean intended as plagiarism or fraud.

* * *

Charles chugged back yet another scotch. It was his third already.

The numbness was slowly creeping up his fingers, his chest, his throat.

As he sat on his worn-out couch, he let his body reel in the alcohol-induced sluggishness. The familiar torpidity was seizing his limbs, one after the other. He felt as though nothing could get to him, as though his body no longer existed. He relished this feeling – or lack thereof. It made him feel as though he was in limbo, as though everything around him was not real. He was floating amidst it all, his carnal envelope defying the laws of physics and nature. It made him feel less alive – and less dead.

His mind, however, remained impervious to it.

No matter how many drinks he had, the alcohol never really got to his head. That was unfortunate – but Charles was a stubborn man. He was trying all the same.

Every night. Every morning.

He didn't even read anymore. He didn't do anything anymore. It was too painful.

Maybe someday, his mind would finally snap. He almost hoped it would.

At first, he had tried to live on. He had tried to run the school and pretend that everything was going to be alright. He had almost started believing it, at some point.

But then, as an ineluctable law of nature, even the best-laid schemes tend to go awry, no matter how hard one tries, no matter how fiercely one wants them to work.

And things only went down from then on.

The war started, that _bloody_ Vietnam War. Things went dire in an instant. Everybody was drafted, teachers and students alike. Charles had tried very hard to do something about all this. For obvious reasons, he was not recruited, of course.

He had attended a few pro-peace protests. He had stopped, however, when the protests became too violent. Bitterly, he watched, as humans were helplessly tearing themselves apart. He feared for his fellow mutants, who could very well become the next enemy.

He really hoped against everything that Erik would not be proven right. Not out of pride; Charles didn't care if _he _was wrong anymore, no matter what people thought.

He just truly didn't want anybody hurt, human or mutant. And even though he did believe in the inner goodness of mankind, a part of him knew that some people would always enjoy watching the world burn. He would admit it, though only reluctantly – but even he knew it was true. And that made Erik not completely wrong, on all accounts.

To be fair, mutants were not _necessarily_ better, when you considered what Shaw had tried to do. Or how Erik was attempting to deal with the problem.

_Erik_.

Charles poured himself another drink. He closed his eyes as he drank it, quickly, without enjoying or tasting the liquid anymore. It hurt his throat, but at least, it made him focus away from _him_.

Charles could not blame Erik for his beliefs: he knew that the man had seen more than his fair share of suffering and hate. He understood why Erik was angry, why he could not believe in the goodness of men; yet, Charles couldn't help but condemn the ways of the Brotherhood. Hate and violence would only ever generate more hate, violence and suffering. They would _never _be a solution. It was a simple observation, though more often than not disregarded.

How Erik could possibly be missing the fact that he was creating more martyrs, more victims, more angry men and women that would seek revenge – just like Shaw did to him – Charles did not understand. No matter what had happened or what decisions he had made, Erik _was_ an intelligent, cultivated, and passionate man.

He was certainly not as evil and corrupted as Shaw or the Nazis. And yet, he was perpetrating the same circle of violence. Who knew how many innocent orphans were already left behind while he was seeking justice and freedom…

It made Charles incredibly sad to think of it. Because he knew, deep down, that Erik was a good man. He knew that he wanted what was good for his people, just like Charles. That was one of the reasons that made it forever impossible for Charles to hate the man.

They just had very different ways of achieving the same goal.

And Charles believed in mercy and compassion. He used to, anyway. Acceptance would not happen overnight. It would take time, years, decades. Hell, homosexuality was still considered a disease and unnatural by most of the world. But Charles was – had been – hopeful; because things _had_ started changing. Women were fighting for their rights. Black people were now allowed to attend university.

Of course, prejudices were still strong, and the United States were far from having a black or female president. But, in a few decades, who knew what could happen?

The Vietnam War had changed many things. It had made Charles incredibly bitter and angry. But deep down, he knew killing was not – and would never be – an option.

The day that Erik had been condemned and imprisoned for JFK's murder, despair had threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Charles had been there, in the courtroom, when the sentence had been pronounced. He still could not believe that Erik would have done such a thing, _he could not_ – and yet, evidence was against him. He hadn't even tried to read Erik's thoughts, even though he was very tempted. He had learned his lesson the hard way the last time, after all.

The facts were there. The bullet had curved. The bullet had been metal. Erik was on the footage.

Therefore, Erik had killed the president.

And Charles had lost the last remnants of his hope in a better future. He had lost his illusions. He had lost his purpose.

And he had almost lost his mind.

* * *

At first, it had been unbearable. When Hank had come up with the serum that would allow him to walk, he tried it, not really because he wanted to, but there was little else to do. And being able to walk would at least improve his independence and mobility, Hank urged him, desperate to help in any way he could.

Surprisingly, the first injection had been bliss. Slowly, the despair, the voices, the thoughts – they had all dimmed, until becoming almost completely silent. Only his own remained, but that he could bear.

Feverishly, he had asked for the second dose. Hank had been a bit suspicious at first, troubled by the sudden change of behaviour. Charles had reassured him saying that he just felt much better because of the treatment; and indeed, the serum was working.

It was a white lie, really, because not entirely false. Charles did feel better, just not because he was able to walk again.

But soon, Hank had noticed something was amiss.

Really, Charles had not been walking all that much, even though he could – which Hank would have expected. The Professor was always either sleeping or sitting. It was odd, and at best out of character.

When Hank had realised how the serum was affecting Charles's abilities, he had tried to stop him from using it. But Charles didn't want to.

The young scientist had then threatened him to stop making it altogether.

Charles had begged him not to. He had actually begged Hank.

He was not that far gone in the addiction – yet – that he did not notice how it was affecting his rationality. He _had_ tried going cold turkey for a day.

It had not been pretty.

In a fit of despair and pain, he had induced irrational fear in the nearby boroughs. Hank had been completely knocked out by the sheer force of the mental blow, being closest to its source.

Reluctantly, even Hank had to admit that Charles's unleashed telepathy had to be controlled, somehow. He had tried to find another way, but it was taking time. So he had continued to produce the serum. Though, he had made Charles promise to let him monitor the doses and keep them low.

Charles had agreed.

For the first time – maybe ever – he could no longer hear the thoughts of others in his head. It was paradise, and yet, soothing in a very uncanny way. Charles was so used to his ability that being deprived of it was oddly disquieting.

It was like suddenly losing his sight: when he woke up, he still expected to see, at times, and couldn't understand that he really wasn't. Wouldn't. But he didn't care, really.

It was a welcome blindness, even: like becoming blind shortly after being allowed to see the most beautiful colours – and losing them. It was easier not to see than being forever confronted to a world without brightness. What did it matter, to be able to see, when everything around you was painfully grey?

Losing Erik had had that effect on him; the helmet – that bloody and cursed thing – had had that effect on him. When the man had put it on, it was as though the most magnificent colours had gone from Charles's world. Not to see can be infinitely more bearable than noticing that everything everywhere has a dull quality, as though lacking brilliance.

It was an immense relief.

Everything – _everyone_ – else was so unbearably dull.

So when Hank had found that miraculous serum, Charles had not just been happy because he could walk again. Being able to walk now was quite a useless perk. And he really had not been happy to start using the serum on a daily basis. He hated depending of something or somebody.

But he was just so very relieved, finally, to be completely blind. The price was high, but then, so was his ability's.

The thing is – he could still think, and worse: remember. And that still hurt, no matter how deaf and isolated he was from the rest of the world. After all, a blind man can still remember the many-coloured sun. And miss it.

Hence the drinking. Night after night. Day after day. Numb was the only state he wished to be in anymore.

Maybe someday, he would forget.

Maybe someday, the liquor would sink in for good. Maybe if he kept hurting himself, he would stop hurting altogether.

As he swallowed quickly his fifth glass, though, Charles knew it would not be today.

He could still feel the pain. He felt it in his bones.

Charles focused on it. It was the only thing still anchoring him to this world.

His scotch bottle was empty now, but he didn't really care at this point. Slowly, with some difficulty, he walked towards his desk.

The syringe was lying there, straight, shining, clean, undisturbed. Ironically, everything he was not brave enough to be anymore.

For he had lost hope.

The needle tore a hole in his left arm. The sting was familiar now, and twistedly, almost welcome. Almost.

As the serum quickly ran through his veins and numbed his growing awareness of the world, he threw away the glass syringe as hard as he could. He wished he could shoot it directly to his head, and try to kill it all away.

For he still remembered everything. And it still hurt as much as it ever did.

_Erik. Oh, Erik._

* * *

_Charles…_

Erik woke up with a start. It had been a most vivid dream At first, he couldn't even remember where he was or why. Everything was white. And Charles…

Odd. He didn't remember ever being in a white room in Westchester. Maybe he had been moved because he was ill or something.

Slowly, he turned on his back, rubbing his forehead to clear the fog that was clouding his mind. He felt as though he had slept for days.

When he opened his eyes, the familiar outline of the glass ceiling brought him back to reality. Abruptly.

He _had_ been sleeping for days, then. He dimly remembered having an incontrollable fit of rage, and then – darkness. And intense dreams.

As he sat on his bed, he suddenly felt it.

The lack of metal. The gigantesque void in his very core.

He tried to reach as far as he could – nothing. Everything around him was made out of plastic and concrete. Everything around him was ugly, dead and colourless.

And it had been for years now.

Nauseous, Erik put his face in his hands, trying to calm the panic that was threatening to overflow.

He was so sick of it all. The pain, the void, the absence – it had never become easier, with the years.

In fact, every time he woke up, it was harder to go on.

If he was honest with himself, thought, the metal was not the only thing sorely missing from his life.

Erik stood up brusquely. It was never good to think of Charles when he woke up, when the last remnants of the morphine and sleeping injections were still making him extremely vulnerable.

But his dream had been so realistic… Erik laughed bitterly at himself.

"Oh, Charles. If you could see me now… How pathetic. What have I become, old friend?"

Shaking his head, he started pacing around his plastic prison, stretching and moving his lethargic limbs.

_I'm in control_, he was thinking._ I will get out of here someday. I will be a free man again. And I will avenge them. I will avenge every single one of them._

Breathing steadily, he closed his eyes. _The point between rage and serenity_, had said Charles.

He tried summoning something serene. Rage, he had plenty, even too much. He had meditated a lot lately, though, which had slightly improved his control over himself. But it was not enough, it was not _nearly_ enough.

Charles had believed in him, Erik remembered. Without his help, he would never have been able to unleash the most important part of his power that laid dormant in his mind.

He knew he could become even more powerful than he already was. There must be some metal _somewhere_. Not in the Pentagon obviously, not anymore. But surely there were cars, planes, utensils, _something._

Erik tried thinking of his mother, but the few and dim memories he had left of her were not strong enough anymore. He tried thinking of how proud he had felt of the Brotherhood when they had successfully rescued a dozen of mutant children in a northern facility. He tried thinking of how satisfying it had been to see that particular facility burn down to the ground.

Surreptitiously, another memory invaded this one. Erik fought hard to suppress it, but it was too strong. Despair overflowed him as he saw for the umpteenth time his comrades from the Brotherhood fall, one after the other.

Only Mystique had been able to escape that day – and only very narrowly.

Erik, him, had been captured. Tried. And put here.

Alone.

Everyone… Everyone was gone, taken away from him. Just like his mother had been. She was the first one he had lost.

There had been so many others after that. His father. His grandparents. His uncle.

And then, Darwin. Emma. Azazel. Riptide. Angel.

Everyone he knew always went away, in the end.

Maybe he was cursed.

His mind was on the edge of snapping. Erik _had_ to regain control. He could be – _was_ – in control of his emotions.

"I am in control of my emotions."

If only there were metal, around him. He felt like part of his soul had been ripped away from him. Not being able to sense even just a scrap, just a nut, just the tiniest piece – it felt like not being able to breathe properly.

Brutally, he slammed his hand on the _evil_ plastic wall. He had always _hated_ plastic.

Dammit, it had been ten years, since their deaths. It didn't diminish the pain, the unfairness of it all.

And he still couldn't control his pain.

And he was alone.

A little voice in his head he didn't want to hear was whispering that Charles – _Charles_ – was not dead. Charles was still there, even though they were at odds (to say the least).

Charles had said that Erik would never be alone.

But Charles – Charles was not there at the moment. And he really was a _fool_.

But may he be damned – Erik still loved him. He loved him so much that thinking of him was even more painful than thinking of the Brotherhood.

"You could have had it all, you know", he whispered, though nobody was there to hear him.

He snorted at his own arrogance. Have what, exactly? There was nothing left. Only him. And even then, what _was_ left of him?

Erik was just a shadow of his past-self now.

He still hoped that Charles would join him, someday. That he would come and rescue him. That he would just _do_ something. Surely, Charles could not believe Erik had wanted to kill the president. He must have been able to pick his thoughts, though Erik had not noticed. But then, Charles could be sneaky.

It was silly really. If Charles had wanted to save him, wouldn't he have done it by now?

Would he?

Against all odds, a part of Erik still hoped he would.

"I know I have let you down, my friend. I know I have hurt you. But I swear, if you come for me…"

Erik didn't know what he was going to say. What, would he promise to be a good boy and not to hurt anybody ever? As if he could, after all that had happened. Deep down, he knew that if Charles asked him to give up his old ways, he wouldn't. He had made that decision a long time ago. Erik was utterly and forever broken, damaged, beyond repair.

Moreover, a whole species was at risk here. Would he sacrifice their well being for some silly love story? No. Of course not. The needs of the many _always_ outweighed the needs of the few – or the one.

_But if Charles's life was at stake, if he was dying, would you still believe that?_, was saying the little voice in his head that he didn't want to hear.

The door brusquely opened, revealing a doctor all dressed in white that was approaching along with two strong guards. He had a blue syringe in his hand.

_Morphine it is, then_.

Nine years, ten months and twenty five days he had spent here, in this half-drugged state, asking himself the same old questions.

Nine years, ten months and twenty five days too much.

_Please, Charles. Please. Come for me._

* * *

_What do you think? Please let me know! :)_


	2. Chapter 2: Titanium

Soooooo it has been a while - and really, I'm so, so sorry about that.

That chapter took forever to actually be something that I hope is readable.

It was supposed to be much much longer, but I decided to cut it in half. The rest is mostly written, so shouldn't take as long for me to upload it!

Still don't know exactly where this is heading, but hey, that's what I love about writing. :)

I do looooooooove feedback. So let me know what you think!

* * *

SUMMARY. What happened in 1963 and a glimpse at 1973 Charles.

* * *

REALLY IMPORTANT: There's a torture and almost-rape situation in this chapter that might trigger some readers. So if you think you won't enjoy reading it, please don't. I don't want anybody reading something they are not comfortable with. It was hard for me to write this scene and I completely understand if you prefer to refrain from reading it at this point.

* * *

Oh, and by the way...

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything in this universe, neither the characters, nor the settings or even some dialogues. I intend to make no profit out of this, as it is done out of pure love for this wonderful universe. I do not own any of the songs that inspired this work either. Any resemblance to any other story, song, poem, movie, real people or anything else is fortuitous and was by no mean intended as plagiarism or fraud.

Oh, and just so you know... I didn't find anything relevant on the subject, but I decided that Stryker Jr (so the adamantium-I'm-crazy-I-die-pulverized-by-the-water-etc-in-X2 one) couldn't be a Major already in 1963, and made him a Captain for now. Though if you find somewhere the rank he had in 1963, I'd be happy to comply with the canon. :)

* * *

**Chapter 2. Titanium**

_I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose_  
_Fire away, fire away_  
_Ricochet, you take your aim_  
_Fire away, fire away_

_You shoot me down but I won't fall_  
_I am titanium_

_CIA Headquarters, 1963._

"State your name, age, country of origin."

Erik sighed minutely. Would all his life always come back to this – to some anonymous interrogation room with strange people wanting to know who he was and where he came from?

"Please state your name, age, country of origin now," repeated the mechanical voice of a hidden recording device, somewhat louder.

"Erik Lehnsherr. 33. Germany."

He heard a door open from behind where he was seated, in a loud – and resolutely non-metallic – thud. Erik already had surmised as much: the room – the whole facility actually – seemed to be deprived of any metal. It was depressing in a way only a man used to feel the reassuring pulse of metal wherever he went could understand. It was like suddenly being rendered blind or deaf.

"Well, well, look who we have here. Hello, Mr. Lehnsherr. Or do I have to call you Magneto?"

Captain Stryker Jr. It all made sense now. Really, Erik should have known. Carefully keeping his face blank, he continued staring at the grey wall facing him.

"Oh, all right. Remain silent all you want. It won't help you much, but it's your choice and your _human_ right. Because you _are_ human, Mr. Lehnsherr, aren't you?"

Erik didn't deign to reply to the man. Stryker had been after him for a while now, trying to prove that he was not human. He knew the man was aware of his power – hence the absence of metal. Obviously, though, he wanted some verbal confirmation from Erik.

"Or… well, but maybe you aren't! Maybe you are what a certain Oxford Professor calls in his thesis a – uh – _mutant_. Now, now. That would make the matters much more… complicated, wouldn't you say? Should the same laws apply to beings utterly different from humans? What an interesting notion. Great debate in perspective. What do you think, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

Stryker was now standing directly in front of him. Erik could not begin to fathom why Stryker hated mutants so much. To be fair, though, he had to admit that he simply could not understand why _anybody_ would.

Catching his eyes, the man simply said, "After all, we don't submit chimpanzees to our laws and justice system."

_That's rich coming from a man who looks like one_, thought Erik, arching a derisive eyebrow at the military man.

"Oh, _young_ Captain Stryker," he replied with a snort. "If anybody's a chimpanzee in this room, it's certainly not me."

Erik saw the glint of triumph in the Captain's eyes. "Ah, he talks! Well, what _are_ you, Lehnsherr? Just because you _look_ human doesn't mean that you _are_."

He knew that he had fallen in some kind of verbal trap, no matter how deliberately he had done it. Maybe he should have remained silent, but at the same time, he was tired of being cautious all the time. Especially with someone like Stryker who already knew everything there was to know about Erik.

"Oh, you are _so_ clever, Captain," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I am a mutant. An _evolved_ human being, as it is stated in the same thesis you were quoting. But something – I don't know what, really – tells me that you already knew that. Oh, wait, that's right maybe it has something to do with your dad also being with the CIA."

"All this contempt, all this anger, Erik, and here I was, thinking you only reserved it for your friends! I'm touched," he responded with a hand on his heart, faking some emotional outburst. "Oh, I can call you Erik, dear, can't I? Or do you prefer _Mutant_?"

Erik chuckled humorlessly, "And what should I call you, then? _Neanderthal_?"

Stryker's smile faltered for a split second. There was an edge to it now, something dangerous and insane that made the man look like a predator. Given the choice, though, Erik always preferred facing an angry adversary than a calm one: once triggered, anger was so easily fueled and channeled that it would inevitably lead to some mistakes on his opponent's part.

"Careful, Lehnsherr," whispered the Captain, pulling something from his vest. "I have a gun."

"Oh. Right," sneered Erik, fighting against the urge to roll his eyes again. "Is this the moment I have to pretend to be scared? Because, you know, I wouldn't want to miss my cue for our audience."

The tension radiating from the other man was almost palpable now.

"Don't play dumb with me, Lehnsherr," he groaned. "It doesn't suit you."

Erik allowed the searing disdain he felt to show on his face as he retorted, "I'm just trying to adjust to your level, Stryker."

The mutant could see the blood pulse more rapidly in Stryker's protruding temporal vein. _He is so easy to manipulate_, he thought, almost disappointed.

"Ha-ha. Aren't you a funny one, Lehnsherr," the man replied softly, his fists clenching and unclenching sporadically.

"What are you going to do, Billy? I _can_ call you Billy, dear, can't I?"

Without warning, Stryker hit Erik's jaw. Hard.

"You are quite a smartass, aren't you?" he purred close to Erik's ear. "You just love to play with fire. But you _will_ tell me what I want to know."

Slowly, appearing completely unruffled, Erik turned his head towards Stryker's. He knew some blood was oozing from his lips, and that he had some loose teeth, but he'd had it way worse than that before. He looked searchingly at the Captain's face. How much did the man _really _know? How many lives were at stake? How many mutants were in his power? Most probably, Stryker already knew enough to condemn too many of them to a horrible fate.

But Erik was not the kind of man to go down without fighting. He had endured pain in the past. The unbearable, wish-I-was-dead kind of pain. He could do it again. He _would _do it again. Rather pain – and even death – than betray his ideals, and his friends.

He wondered what Charles would think if he saw him now. He would probably be angry. Or disappointed. Yes, that sounded more like Charles, being disappointed by something Erik had done. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway.

Fighting the pain, Erik brutally spat in Stryker's face, which was only inches from his.

"In a pig's eye, Stryker."

Stryker didn't move for a few seconds. Calmly, he retreated towards the dark glass of the one-way window on Erik's right. He got a handkerchief out of his pocket, and proceeded to clean himself from Erik's spit and blood.

"I will make you talk, Lehnsherr."

His tone was deceptively calm, and Erik was immediately on his guard. Pain, fury, rage, he could take without flinching. But he had had firsthand experience with cold anger and hatred: Shaw had been particularly good at it.

It never bode well.

Stryker replaced his glasses on his nose. Unhurriedly, he walked back towards Erik, watching him intently. He took his gun in his hand, a devious smile spreading on his face.

"Why were you in Dallas on November 22, Lehnsherr?"

Without waiting for Erik's answer, he hit him again, the hard plastic of his gun brutally connecting with the mutant's jaw.

"Were you involved in the assassination of our _beloved_ President?"

Stryker punched him hard on the sternum. Erik heard something crack as sharp pain pierced his chest, but he mustered all the strength he had left to keep silent and as unperturbed as possible. At least, he could still breathe almost normally, which meant the lungs were not touched. Yet.

The military man started hitting him in earnest, making the chair he was tied to fall on the ground. Erik's head hit the concrete violently, and for a few seconds, all he could see were white dots and a blinding light.

A particularly fierce kick in the stomach brought him back to reality. Relentless, Stryker continued to beat him, filling every blow with all the hatred and madness he felt for Erik and his kind. Erik knew he was covered in blood by now, the too familiar metallic taste overwhelming in his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to reach for some metal. There had to be something _somewhere_. There just had to. He just had to concentrate. Rage and serenity. He could do it.

He had done this a thousand times. Stryker was nothing compared to Shaw. He wouldn't break him; nobody had, so far.

Well, not physically, at least.

Erik was trying to feel the metal usually throbbing under him, but he might as well have tried with plastic or wood. He realized with a start that maybe they had incapacitated him with some kind of neuronal inhibitor preventing him from using his powers. The thought was disquieting and very unnerving, to say the least.

Erik realised suddenly that Stryker had stopped kicking him. He felt himself being dragged up by the collar. Carefully, he opened his eyes and glared icily at the man holding him.

"What a sight for sore eyes, you are, Erik," Stryker said, with a mocking chuckle. "You better start talking soon before I completely rip the skin off your pretty face."

Erik couldn't help to feel a bit smug that he hadn't uttered a single sound while Stryker was beating him to a pulp. He allowed a crooked smile to reach his lips. "_Verpiss dich, Stryker!"_

The man only laughed, as he took a few steps back from Erik.

"Well, you have spirit, I'll give you that. Here is another idea: I'll shoot you in every single one of your bones until you beg me for mercy. What do you think?"

Erik snorted. "You can shoot me all you want, Stryker. I won't talk. "

"You will talk to me," stated the Captain, as he made a gesture to whoever was standing on the other side of the one-way mirror.

Erik was genuinely laughing now, shaking his head as though Stryker was some kind of slow-witted child.

"Stryker, I was detained for five years by a Nazi sympathiser who tortured and experimented on me. I went to Auschwitz. My mother was killed ruthlessly in front of me. You, of all people, won't succeed in making me talk. I've got nothing to lose. Not anymore."

It was Stryker's turn to shake his head, sighing dramatically.

"Come on, Lehnsherr. It's gonna be painful. I'll make sure of it."

With a scathing smirk, Erik looked at the military man in front of him. "Try me."

Two privates walked into the room, armed with clubs and what looked like a cat-o-nine-tails.

"Gentlemen, if you may," said Stryker, casually, as he picked a folder Erik hadn't noticed before.

One of the soldiers untied him from the chair, cuffing him instead to the chain (_Titanium_, realised Erik) that was hanging from the ceiling. Violently, the other one ripped his shirt from his back.

"Is that supposed to be punishment?" asked Erik, as he eyed the two privates suggestively.

"I mean it, Lehnsherr. I'm gonna hurt you," only replied the Captain, pretending to be distracted by the papers he was holding.

He felt each point of the cat-o-nine-tails pierce his flesh, scraping it from his back, denting his bones. He clenched his teeth ferociously, fighting hard against the agonising pain that threatened to engulf him.

"Humm. Kinky. I like that," he managed to say in a husky voice.

Another wave of pain flooded Erik, in his legs this time. Panting hard, he tried to remain standing, but he knew his knees would soon give up. He was looking at the ground, trying to steady his breath and to remain conscious. Anything – he would do anything, rather than give in to torture and pain. He was Erik Lehnsherr, _verdammt; _he was Magneto.

He would not give in.

The privates kept striking him, relentless, for what felt like hours to Erik. He closed his eyes, and tried to make the world around him disappear, as Charles had taught him to.

Charles. Beautiful, idiot Charles.

_Do not give up, my friend. You're not alone._

For a second, for a moment, it felt as though _he _was there, in his mind, with him, right now. It was impossible – Erik knew that. It was illogical to hope. It was unlikely that Charles was anywhere near him.

And yet, it felt so real, that familiar mind touch, that beautiful voice, begging him, urging him to keep holding on.

_You're not alone, Erik. I am right here._

Erik felt a surge of hope and strength pour in his heart. He basked in it, he reeled in it, and he let it sink to the very marrow of his bones.

It didn't matter if it was just a figment of his imagination. It still did the trick. And deep down, Erik had to admit that there would always be an echo of Charles, no matter how hard he tried to shield himself. They had shared something too intense, too powerful to be forgotten.

Straightening his spine, Erik realised that the whip and clubs now laid discarded on his left. Stryker was slowly walking around the room, and came to place himself right in front of him. Mustering all the composure and strength he had left, Erik looked up at him.

"What? Done already? They don't have much stamina, your boys, do they?"

"Quit bragging, Lehnsherr," snapped Stryker, with some annoyance. "We both know that this is just some pointless bravado."

"I don't know how many times I'll have to tell you: I do not fear pain," croaked Erik. "Haven't since I was 16. I have learned to become a man, a strong man, a _mutant_ man, with broken bones and bleeding flesh. Pain and anger were the only companions I had, and I learned to master them rather than let myself be governed by them. _You_ know nothing about fear and pain, human. Nothing."

The man laughed quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. He reached again for the gun in his pocket and gestured to Erik with it.

"Why don't you just tell me what I want to know before I decide your life isn't worth anything to me anymore?"

It was Erik's turn to chuckle derisively.

"Beneath the helmet, there is an idea, Captain Stryker, and ideas are bulletproof."

"You're not bulletproof, mutant. I know a couple others that are, but _you_ aren't."

Erik was sick of games, sick of Stryker's little smug smile. A burning anger was fast spilling in his gut, making him pull on his titanium chains.

"Then, why don't you just kill me?" he groaned dangerously. "Stop talking about it and do it already! I'm not afraid of dying. My life is not nearly as paramount as my ideals. Others can – and will – carry on after I'm gone. My death is nothing. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few – or the one, in this case."

Stryker's quiet laugh was more infuriating than anything else. The man slowly walked around Erik, brushing the tip of his gun on his bleeding flesh. Erik couldn't help but hiss as the plastic hovered above his tattered skin.

"Oh, that's so _grand_ of you, Erik," he whispered in his ear. "So selfless. Now, there's no need to pretend here. I know you, you're like me: a practical man."

Stryker's gun was slowly moving across Erik's back, lingering in the wounds, pressing painfully in the deepest ones. Grinding his teeth, Erik swallowed and tried to remain composed. He had to act as though he was on top of his game. It was the only way to win something with men like Stryker.

"And my usefulness hasn't expired just yet, has it?"

The gun was getting lower and lower, making Erik cringe. He'd always had difficulty coping with being humiliated. He didn't like at all where this was going. Erik was a man of action: he preferred physical pain indefinitely over psychological torture. He had had enough of the latter when he was young.

Stryker's gun stopped right above his butt cheeks.

"How do you think it would feel, Lehnsherr, to be shot through the arse?" he susurrated in a low growl, even closer than before. Erik could feel his sickening breath on his ear. "I heard wounds in the lower back are the most painful ones. You would beg me to kill you before you bleed to death, wouldn't you? You would beg me to finish you quickly."

Fighting hard against his nausea, Erik tried to laugh weakly.

"Oh, but I know you won't kill me, Stryker, that's the thing. You want to, of that, I have no doubt. But as you said, you are a practical man."

Stryker was right behind him now, pressing his legs and lower body against Erik's. He moved the gun up to his head.

"I could kill you. One less of that mutant vermin on this planet. Good riddance."

Erik was feeling sicker than he ever had in his life. He could feel the other man's flesh digging in his own, invading his personal space, claiming his body. He knew Stryker had him completely powerless. He could do anything to him now, and nobody would say anything. Nobody would know.

Erik hated it.

_Charles would know instantly_, he thought, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it formed. Thinking of Charles earlier had helped him, but right now, it would only make him sicker and more ashamed. He fought the urge to kick Stryker back, tried to appear as unruffled as ever as he leaned back on Stryker, closing the space between their bodies.

He turned slightly his head towards him. "But you still need me, or I wouldn't be talking to you right now. Empty threats are not very effective, generally, you know. Especially on me."

Their faces were only inches apart. The disgust Erik was feeling was threatening to overwhelm him, but he kept still.

"Maybe you are right," murmured Stryker. "I won't kill you. Not yet, anyway."

He pulled Erik's hair abruptly, and made him look directly at him, an intrusive finger tracing his jaw, lightly rubbing his stubble.

"But it doesn't mean I cannot make you wish I had."

Erik looked back at the man with undisguised distaste. _So you want to play this game_, he thought icily._ I will play along, Stryker. You sick bastard._He exhaled slowly, letting his breath brush on Stryker's open mouth. He licked his parched lips, eying the effect it was having on the man overpowering him.

"Hurt me. Fuck me if you want. I won't talk."

The tension lay thick between the two men. As he stared back at his captor, Erik wondered what would happen next. A few minutes went by in a heavy silence, only ruptured by Erik's ragged breath. They were standing on the edge of a knife.

Stryker suddenly pushed Erik away, who barely contained his sigh of relief.

"As if I would ever lower myself to do that. You're nothing more than an animal to me, Lehnsherr."

"Then, fire away, Stryker. What's holding you back?"

"Don't tempt me, animal. No dodging those with your ability this time. Though, I reckon you prefer to divert bullets in your friends' backs, from what I heard, don't you?"

Erik's breath caught in his throat. If he had been angry before, it was nothing compared to the blinding rage that came rushing through his gut right now, unstoppable.

"_How dare you_ –"

"Aha," said Stryker, with a triumphant grin. "How dare I what? Mention Cuba? You know, I think I've found your pressure point, at last. Shall we talk about that Oxford Professor again, Erik? Huh? Shall we talk about Xavier and his school?"

Pulling on his chains, Erik turned around to face Stryker.

"Xavier has nothing to do with this," he hissed.

"Or _au contraire_ maybe he has everything to do with this. After all, he is a powerful telepath. Maybe he sneaked in your mind and implanted some ideas about killing the president. How can you be sure?"

Erik snorted. "If you think that the mighty Charles Xavier would do that, then you clearly do not know much about him. He would not do it."

"So I guess the helmet you are wearing is just a costume of some kind, then?"

Erik hesitated. Of course, he knew Charles could do it, that he had the power to implant a thought in someone's mind. But how could he have, with the helmet? And even if Erik hadn't worn the helmet for the past year, the thought of Charles doing something like that was so foreign and absurd that it was almost laughable.

"Charles would _never_ do that. The helmet has a completely different purpose."

Erik knew he had said something wrong when he caught something akin to victory pierce in Stryker's eyes.

"Oh, it's Charles, then, is it? Quite the pair, you two were making, I dare say. Such a shame. A good friend, Dr. Xavier was before you broke up – oh,_sorry_, I meant, before you left because of a divergence of opinion."

Erik felt as though someone had just poured a whole bucket of ice-cold water on him. Had they been that obvious that a CIA agent they barely had talked to could see through them so easily? Had they been so blinded by each other that they had actually forgotten that people were watching? Had they been the last one to understand that there was more than friendship in their complex relationship? _Well, it certainly looks like it_.

But Erik knew better than fall for the bait and reply anything to the unveiled accusation of a man who had almost raped him not even ten minutes ago.

"I have not killed the president, Stryker, and you know it very well, I think."

"Do I, now?" retorted the Captain, cheerfully. "But you were there! Weren't you? What were you doing in Dallas, Lehnsherr?"

Erik only looked at Stryker, arching a bloody eyebrow.

"Well, now, Erik. Even you have to admit that your presence there was quite suspicious."

"I did not _kill_ the president."

"Then how do you explain the bullet curving and hitting the president _exactly_ where it would have killed him?"

"Your men arrested me before I could divert it completely!"

Stryker's grinned became wider.

"So you do admit to having manipulated the bullet, then? The very same bullet that was used in the President's assassination?"

"_Verdammt_, man! I was only trying to save him!"

"But while doing thus, unfortunately you ended up killing him."

Bitterly, Erik turned his head away from the military man. His body was aching so much, and yet, it was nothing compared to what he felt inside.

"Oh, silent again, now, are we? Maybe instead we should talk about the missiles you turned on the US army in Cuba then?"

"I will _not_ talk about what happened in Cuba to you or any of your dogs, Stryker."

"Touchy subject, is it? Still feeling guilty about that bullet that put your boyfriend in a wheelchair?"

Erik clenched his teeth, fighting hard against his impulse to answer something that would give away more than he wanted.

"What happens in the Professor's life now is none of my concern, _sir_."

From the carnivorous grin that appeared on Stryker's face, it was obviously the wrong thing to say as well.

"Very well, _Mister_ Lehnsherr. Then, you won't have any problems if I decide to call on Charles Xavier instead. As you cannot seem to be bothered by the telepath's life anyway…"

Cold dread made Erik's breath hitch.

"Xavier was never involved in any of this," he whispered. "Leave him out of it."

Stryker continued to smile manically, clasping his hand in front of himself with delight.

"But we just _have_ to know whether he was controlling you or not, my dear!"

It was all wrong. Everything was going all wrong. Panic started rising in Erik's chest, though he repressed it as much as he could.

"He could not manipulate me. I made sure of it –"

"Yes, yes," cut Stryker, wavering his hand dismissively. "We know. Very handy _artefact_, that helmet of yours, isn't it? But what if that charming Professor Xavier made you _think_ you had the helmet on all this time? What if you've been manipulated from the beginning? What if everything that has happened only did in your head? How can you be _sure_, Erik? How can you _ever_ be sure?"

"It's – It cannot – I don't –" he sputtered, than closed his mouth abruptly. Inhaling deeply, Erik tried not to let himself be manipulated by the Captain's strategy. More steadily, he went on, "I am sure. I trust him."

"How touching," retorted the man, with obvious disdain. "You know very well he _could_ have done it, though. Charles Xavier is a powerful man, more dangerous than he lets on."

"Charles would never harm anybody willingly."

"But he _could_," finished Styrker, pointing his finger at Erik. "And that's what makes him weak in your eyes, isn't it? That he has the power but won't use it? That he won't fight?"

Erik narrowed his eyes as the man nodded at one of the privates still standing behind him.

"Maybe we should just go get him and ask him, what do you think?"

Erik closed his eyes. No. This could not be happening. If they had Charles…

"You won't succeed that way," he replied, shaking his head, desperately trying to find something to convince the Captain. "Xavier is not your man. He will always turn the other cheek. He will always put the life of others before his. You won't succeed."

Stryker had walked back towards his prisoner. He caressed Erik's jaw with his thumb, making him look up at him.

"Oh, Erik., you silly man," he susurrated, with a nasty smirk. "We _always_ succeed."

"You won't succeed in taking Charles Xavier down, believe me," murmured Erik, dangerously. "Not as long as I am alive."

Utterly unimpressed, Stryker caressed the mutant's hair. The touch burnt Erik more than any of the whiplashes of the cat-o'-nine-tails had.

"He is only a telepath, Erik. And we do have a way of rendering him completely harmless."

"The helmet –" started the mutant.

"Oh, but I'm not talking about the helmet, dear," abruptly cut Stryker, cupping his face with both hands. "I'm talking about you."

_Westchester, 1973_.

Charles didn't know at first what woke him up. He tried turning his head, but winced, the throbbing making him dizzy and lightheaded. He opened his eyes, slowly, and tried to look at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was blocked by an empty scotch bottle, which prompted another wave of pain and sickness as he remembered why he had finished it the night before.

Maybe he had overdone it, this time. Slightly. Just slightly.

"Bloody hell."

A wave of heat overwhelmed him suddenly, leaving him sweaty and uncomfortable. That's when he registered that not only was he still fully dressed, but that he also had slept under what seemed to consist in every single sheets and bed coverings that existed in Westchester. He got rid of them as quickly as he could, fighting the growing nausea.

It was a lost cause.

"Oh no. No, no, no…"

Forgetting his headache, he jumped out of the bed and ran towards the bathroom.

He could remember a time when waking up like this meant he had had a great night with friends, overdoing it just because, well, they could, celebrating the end of yet another term or its beginning (or just any moment of it, really). How far away that era appeared to be now... A lifetime ago it seemed; before Vietnam, before the Moon landing, before Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, before Nixon, before JFK's assassination – before Cuba.

Before Erik.

After a while, his stomach finally calming down, Charles sat back on the marble floor. He caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall and chuckled humourlessly. He was wearing some old winter pyjamas that probably belonged to his father, long since worn out. Even though it was summer, Charles had put his old plaid bathrobe on top of it. There were stains of dubious origin on his pants and shirt. He hadn't shaved in weeks. His hair was growing much longer than he ever had it, tangled and messy. He couldn't remember the last time he had washed them – or even just washed himself, for all that mattered. And this was the great Charles Xavier, distinguished Oxford graduate, Professor of Genetics. There wasn't much left of the perfectly groomed and sophisticated man he once had been – if anything left at all.

What a mess he had become.

When the nausea had receded almost completely, Charles stood up and reached for the aspirin bottle in the cabinet. Splashing some water in his face, he was starting to feel a bit more like a human being. Without another glance at his reflection, he went out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Now that he could understand it, his alarm clock was saying it was only 8:23 am.

Well, that's not as though he had anything planned today. Or ever. Pushing aside all covers, he decided that he could indeed use a bit more sleep.

Sleep was always better than thinking, after all.

* * *

Next chapter coming soon, welllll, soonish, welllll, it's mostly written really, welllll I still need to finish it. (I've been watching way too much Doctor Who lately.)  
BUT you know what helps? Even more than kudos (though I love those too)? Reviews! :D


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